


Fix Me In Forty-Five

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Angst, Dean Winchester Angst, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Hurt and comfort, M/M, they're both cuties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4354304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel isn’t sure when it happened. For the life of him, he could not tell when Dean Winchester had finally broken. Castiel wants to fix him, he truly does. Only, he does not know how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fix Me In Forty-Five

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's a Destiel craze, I'm afraid. Thank you for reading this!

Castiel isn’t sure when it happened. He is no expert on emotions, or love, and he compared to humans he knows squat about caring and kindness. But he is the Angel with the most heart, and it isn't a flaw that caused him to rebel against Heaven for two little boys who grew up heroes, it is his purpose. Yet for the life of him, he could not tell when Dean Winchester had finally broken.

Was it after Famine, or before it? Was it after Hell, or before that, even? Was it before John's death, before Sam's enrolment, when was it? His mother had got it right when she said Angels were watching over him- Castiel had made it a point to protect Dean when he was a child, nudging him away from poison ivy and nettles, bringing him closer to roses and daisies. But yet, no matter how matter many times Castiel went back, he couldn't tell when Dean Winchester finally cracked.

He assumes that it was a collection of everything, a burden of troubles that didn't lighten, because each person that carried a portion went away and added more.

Dean slams his fist into a wall and Castiel winces, all too familiar with the feeling of split knuckles. "Dean."

Dean takes no notice and does it again, and again, until Castiel is sure that his hand is broken and blood stains the whitewashed wall. "Why me, Cas?" Dean asks, and his voice is pure heartbreak, it is a jagged knife to the throat. "Why me, you son of a bitch?"

Castiel takes two steps forward, hesitantly, approaching Dean as if he was a monster, something that even Angels run from. "Dean."

He holds out his hands, and Dean, unsure, places his hands in Castiel's. There is a murmured chant, and Castiel withdraws his hand, and Dean's definitely broken hand is healed and mended.

Dean doesn't have time for wonderment, as he grabs Castiel by the shoulders and shakes him, roughly. "Why me? Answer me, goddammit!"

Castiel waits until Dean stops, before cupping Dean's face in his hands. Jimmy Novak's hands were not calloused, they were normal and they were meant to hold a pen in a nine to five day job, but Castiel has turned it into hands made for forging, for fighting and for winning, and the callouses rub against the stubble on Dean's face.

It is a pleasant feeling, if a little new, and Castiel decides he would like more of it, in the near future. "Because, Dean, in a garden, which flowers would you pick?"

Dean stares at him. "This ain't the time for your flowery bee mojo, Cas."

"Just listen, Dean," Castiel tries again. "In a garden filled with all kinds of flowers, which one would you pick? Which ones would you cut and take home?"

Dean shrugs. "The most beautiful one, I suppose."

"Exactly," Castiel says as he released him and takes another two steps back. "The most beautiful ones are always the ones to die."

**XxX**

"I'm sorry for your loss," someone says, over his shoulder, like a passing wind.

Dean wants to scream.

Another person had given their life for his, when he should be the one wallowing in Hell, getting his brains pulled out of his ears (and yes, the demons did try that once.).

He should be the one dead, not them.

I am sorry for your loss. What a bunch of bullcrap. Throw a glass onto the floor. It shatters. Say sorry to the fucking glass. Is it fixed? Of course not.

Castiel stands respectfully by the casket, paying last respects in a way only Angels can, and Dean knows that if anything, the person just got a free ride into the Garden of Heaven.

But Dean doesn't care that they're in Heaven, he cares that they're not here because Dean was too fucking stupid to notice a demon creeping up on him. Go figure.

How many does this make now? Five, ten, a hundred? How many more to come? He can’t take any more of this, he really can’t.

Castiel and Sam move to stand by him. They open their mouths to say something, presumably, it is not your fault, but Dean knows that it is, he knows that it is his fault the same way he knows his mother would still be alive if Sammy was not born.

When he got home, the first thing he does is turn to drink. Sam hangs around, as does Castiel, but Sam leaves for a walk half an hour later, while Castiel sits on a bed in the corner.

“Cas- I don’t understand what you said earlier,” Dean says, and Castiel turns to look at him. In the time that Dean has gotten to know Castiel, Castiel has lost the detachment that had surrounded him. He now openly looks at things, as if finally being able to appreciate the creation that had gone into it, and now Castiel looks at him the same way he looks at things he likes- with wide, bright eyes and a mouth tilted upwards.

“What do you mean?” Castiel asks, his voice quiet, but no longer cold, as if being in the Winchester’s presence had thawed him. “What did I say?”

“What you said about the beautiful flowers dying. Everyone picks the one they prefer- beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that jazz,” Dean chugs the beer, and Castiel stands and moves over to him, with his silent, deadly tread.

“That is true,” Castiel says as he taps a finger to Dean’s forehead, and he immediately feels the pain lighten in his gut. “But like you said. Everyone picks their favourite- and you are God’s.”

Dean laughs, and it is filled with self-loathing. “I suppose that is something you could say. What are you going to tell me now, have faith in God?”

“No. There is no point in faith if the person you are putting faith in does not have faith in you. Faith in God might not be the thing you need now, Dean.”

“Then what do I need now, Cas?"

Castiel found it almost heartwarming how much Dean trusted him not to say the wrong thing. “Faith in your brother. Faith in Bobby. Faith in me, Dean. The people around you aren’t around you to destroy you, and neither are we here to fix you, because just because something is broken does not mean that something is any less perfect than it was at the start. Is it so hard to believe that what we are here for is simply to be your friend?”

**XxX**

Castiel runs through the forest, conscious only of the fact that they have left the trail and are now getting dangerously lost.

He can feel Dean’s hand in his, but he does not have time to stop and think about what that could mean, how nice it feels to not be alone. All he knows is that there are too many demons gathered in one place for Dean and him to take on alone, and why the Hell did he not just stay at home with Sam researching instead of investigating with Dean?

Castiel continues to run, and he can hear Dean's breath coming in short pants behind him, the hunter built for sprints not marathons, and it occurs to him that he's never felt more alive.

He could feel each pulse his vessel's heart made, the beats sending blood rushing everywhere; he could feel the adrenaline surging through his veins, keeping him alive as surely as it was keeping Dean alive.

"Look out!" The voice, deep and familiar, more so than the words, draws him out of his daydream, and Castiel looks up just in time to see a yawning ravine, fathoms deep and just as wide.

He stares at it, uncomprehending. This was definitely not on the map.

He skids to a halt, Dean's motion nearly sending him over the edge, and peers down cautiously. Behind him, he can hear Dean muttering every swear known to man (and then some, because after learning God just didn't care, Castiel had let loose some of his own Enochian cuss words, and Dean was very good at learning them.).

He can hear the demons frenzied laughter and realised this ravine was demon made, Lucifer made, and the thought nearly makes him uncontrollable with anger.

The demons crash through the branches, he can hear them, the vile things stampeding their way through the foliage of Yosemite (where you would not believe the amount of people who buried bodies without the proper rights), ruining the ground where they stand.

Castiel turns to Dean in a panic, hands landing on Dean’s shoulders, forcing him to look at Castiel’s eyes. “Dean.”

“Cas.” “Dean, do you trust me?” Castiel asks, desperately, the words mixed together from panic.

“Of course,” Dean says, and there is not a shred of doubt in his words, in his eyes, and that trust alone nearly feels like he is lifting Castiel up on a pedestal.

“Good- we have to jump,” Castiel says, and Dean makes a warbling noise that sounds like he’d just choked on his own saliva and been simultaneously punched in the gut.  “What?”

“On three,” Castiel ignores Dean’s disbelief; he is only wondering if he has strength enough to complete the task he set out for himself.

The first arrow flies through the woods and sails into the abyss, and Castiel nearly balks.

Castiel pushes Dean on one, because he knows him, and he knows that Dean would not have jumped on three. Dean’s scream pierces the air, and Castiel tumbles after him.

The demons grow hushed, and then disperse, because that ravine was Lucifer’s and no one comes or goes without his consent.

**XxX**

He falls for what seems like forever, panicking, the whole time wondering when Castiel was going to spring a miraculous plan, like getting God to beam them onto a plane.

He falls forever, screaming the whole way, but it is only three seconds, when all of a sudden there is a noise like a thunderclap and clothes tearing, and Castiel’s body collides with his.

Castiel flips him around, until he is falling feetfirst, then he blinks open his watering eyes and sees Castiel’s, the blue blending together with the growing darkness.

Dean’s fall slows until he is hovering, weightless, and but he keeps his eyes closed, afraid, and fights the urge to scream. Again. “Holy shit, Cas,” Dean chokes, trying to move his hand to Castiel, before finding it pinned back by Castiel’s arms.

Castiel is holding him with two hands on the sides of his arms, and Dean knows without looking that Castiel’s left hand aligns perfectly with the welt on Dean’s arm. “This how you pulled me out of Hell?”

Castiel nods, already moving through the narrow space, readjusting Dean in his arms as he goes. The only thing that is keeping Dean in the air is Castiel’s Angel strength, which Dean is gratefully thanking Heaven for.

“You can open your eyes now, Dean.”

Dean does as he is told, opening his eyes blearily, blinking them once, twice, before letting out a noise of exclamation, his eyes growing wide.

“You have wings,” Dean says, and his voice is filled with wonderment. “They’re- they’re beautiful.”

And it is true. Dean is not speaking out of the biasness of his heart, Dean is speaking the truth.

It is hard to see the dim light of the ravine, but as Castiel flies higher and harder, Dean can feel the ripple of Castiel’s shoulders, the pallor of his face, the wind on his face from each beat of the wings.

When they finally fly free of the ravine, an angry roar shakes the mountainside, and Castiel does not stop to drop Dean on the other side, he continues to fly, and it is such a pity yet such blessing that it is already dark.

Dean wishes he could see Castiel’s wings in colour, because right now all he can see are black lumps, however graceful they may be.

But the moonlight is bright, and it shines on Castiel’s face, illuminating his eyes an ethereal shade and casting shadows on his face.

At that moment, Castiel looks not like a human but like an Angel made out of marble, a creation for people to marvel at but not to love. Castiel lands in a small cave, and Dean is grateful for Yosemite’s abundance of it, because Dean’s legs were losing feeling and he could only imagine how tired Castiel must be.

There is no signal for his cellphone, but it is not the first time Dean has not come home from an investigation, and with Castiel Sam knows that he is safe.

Dean quickly lights a fire (he was not going to go all native, he had a goddamn lighter in his pocket), and hopes that Castiel has not kept his wings.

He hasn’t, and Dean stifles an audible gasp. (He is not going to become all chick flick on this one, hell no.). Castiel turns to face him with an expression of resignation, and Dean doesn’t understand why Castiel looks so glum.

Castiel has wings of solid onyx, a black so dark it was almost obsidian, and it tinged purple and blue at the ends. Silvery markings trace its way through his wings, elaborate designs of curls, curves and lines that formed an unending pattern all around.

His wings are long and narrow and huge, one and a half metres long on either side, and the longest end dripped down until it touched the floor. The feathers glinted in the firelight, and they looked razor-sharp.

They are a warrior’s wings, not one from those cherubs or fantasy books you find in a thrift store. Dean follows the feathers down to its midpoint and then where the ends trail on the floor, and fights back yet another gasp. (Seriously, twice in one day? Get a grip, Dean.).

Halfway down, the feathers suddenly turn to pure silver, like the wings of old lore, and they glow softly like the moon. The markings here are a black, but other than that there is no obvious break in the pattern.

The result is wings that look like a black knife stained with silver blood, and Dean finds it absolutely breath-taking.

Castiel sighs and shuffles around, while Dean raises an eyebrow and waits for an explanation.

“The markings- they’re my status in Heaven. It used to be different, but when I disobeyed, they changed,” Castiel begins as he sits down on the stone, covering himself defensively with one wing. “The change in colour- it used to be silver completely, but my fall from Heaven cut me off, and the black is a result of the absence.”

Dean nods, finding himself itching to reach out and touch, but withholding himself because he can tell that his wings are a touchy subject for Castiel, and now all he wants is to reassure Castiel that his wings are beautiful and wonderful, and that the black reminds him of Batman and it is singlehandedly the most amazing thing ever.

Castiel grits his teeth as he stares coldly at one of the wings. “Now they’re the ugliest in creation. I will keep it now."

Dean’s body bristles at that kind of language, and he pitches himself forward, landing himself a few centimetres from Castiel. “What are you talking about? Your wings are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. They’re amazing, Cas. Leave it up for a bit, will you?”

Castiel’s wings puff up slightly and his right wing curls around Dean’s waist, draping itself across Dean’s back like a blanket. “Really?”

It is in that very moment that Dean realised why Castiel never showed him his wings before. He thinks that he wouldn’t like him, the real him, who he was outside of the vessel.

The wings were who he was in Heaven, and now it was on Earth, and he was afraid Dean wouldn’t like it. Wouldn't like him when he was not wearing Jimmy Novak.

It was the most precious thing to ever happen to Dean. “Would I lie about these kinds of things, Cas? They’re gorgeous, really.”

Dean can’t find the proper words to say how he really feels about Castiel’s wings, how much he wants to touch, to stroke, to see more often, how much he wants to kiss Castiel- the emotions boil inside him, but he turns the heat back on low.

Castiel smiles shyly down at his lap, and it is the most insecure and cute thing that Castiel has ever done and Dean is literally fighting every instinct that screams for him to take him right here right now.

“I never brought them out because it is difficult and it hurts to bring them from one dimension to another. But we had no choice back there.”

Dean nods as he slowly stretches out a hand that comes to rest on the top of Castiel’s wings. “Thanks for saving my butt, Cas. I owe you."

Castiel tenses up but allows Dean to rest his hand there, before eventually stroking, following the main bone down to the alula.

Castiel’s feathers are soft to the touch, and Dean finds himself falling in love with Castiel all over again.

XxX

Castiel knows that Dean Winchester is more broken and in more pain than he is, but he cannot stop himself from curling into himself at night, eyes inches from his knees, a little ball of pain and misery.

He remembers his wings, the night he showed them to Dean, unwillingly, the night Dean saw who he was.

A monster, an outcast.

Dean had loved his wings, had wanted to see them more though, his mind whispers, but the deep dark beast inside him roars, and the brief thought is torn away.

His wings hurt.

They hurt everyday, a phantom pain behind his shoulder blades as the oncoming wave of black swamps him. He hates it.

His body hurts; he uses his grace too much to be advisable when one is cut off from the mothership, but Dean and Sam move so fast and they constantly need his help. They need him. They need him, and Castiel will not forsake them.

And he is lonely, so lonely, for the company of other Angels, because even though he sees Dean and Sam every day he knows what short lifespans they have and he knows that they will die.

So that brings us to why Castiel is currently curled up like a ball on a cheap motel bed, tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes.

Tears roll over his nose and into the left eye, and Castiel hisses at the sting.

There is a knock on the door, a click, before it pushes open, revealing Dean standing, bowlegged and just that much taller than him, standing in the shadow of the doorway.

He sees Castiel, his eyes register Castiel's emotional state, and he immediately shuts the door, moving to sit by him. Dean doesn't say anything, he doesn't have to, but he pulls Castiel into his lap until Castiel's face is pressed against the warmth of his neck, and Castiel's legs wrap around Dean waist.

Dean just holds him, tightly, and Castiel is not sure if Dean knows how much it means to him, because Dean is literally holding him together, keeping him from falling apart.

"Let it all out, Cas, it's fine," Dean says, and it's the first thing he says in a long while. "Sometimes all you need is a good cry."

It's almost as if Dean's words have a magical effect on Castiel, because all of a sudden he's weeping onto his shoulder, his vessel shuddering with the effort.

Dean doesn't make him stop, doesn't say anything, just rubs his back and strokes his hair.

When Castiel is done, when he's cried so much that Dean's shoulder is soggy, Dean shifts him in his lap and turns his face so he can see him.

Castiel can only imagine what a mess he looks like now.

His hair is messy from Dean's ministrations, and his nose is red. His blue eyes, the ones that made him seem he had the ocean inside of him had always seemed slightly sad, but they had been strong and resilient and decisive. Now, they were watery and shaky and vulnerable. Dean leans his forehead against Castiel's, both looking into each other's eyes, green on blue, the colours of creation.

They were, in that moment, bonded together with one single line. They understood pain.

Castiel wanted to stay there forever.


End file.
